


In My Blood

by lolo313



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining, Possession (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: Scott is hurt while rescuing Stiles from the Monster of the Week. But when a seemingly innocuous injury awakens long dormant feelings and threatens Scott's very existence, Stiles must decide how far he is willing to go to save his best friend's life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Tagged as dubious consent since Scott isn't in his right mind, and neither of them have much of a choice (hence fuck or die).

            As Stiles hung upside down, suspended by a thick coating of hardened mucus around his ankles, he contemplated the fact that this was not his worst Monday ever. No, his worst Monday had come in third grade, when, in the span of one day, he’d lost his favorite baseball card, gotten in a fight with Scott, and broken his elbow. However, as the chuiaels stalked closer, pointed teeth glinting behind its gash of a mouth, Stiles decided that this could very well be his second worst Monday ever.

            True, he had no one to blame but himself. He had, after all, volunteered as bait. But in the warmth and security of Scott’s kitchen it hadn’t seemed such a dangerous idea. Stiles would wander into the woods where the chuiaels had last been sighted, and once he’d been taken to its lair, Scott and the pack would track him down by scent and come to his rescue. On paper it seemed perfect. But as his watch ticked from 6:13 to 6:14 to 6:48 to well past seven, and the pressure behind his eyes built until he worried his skull would burst open like an overripe melon, Stiles wondered if perhaps they’d failed to think up every eventually. Like the one where the chuiaels made its lair in a cave accessible only by scaling a sheer cliff face. And though Scott McCall was many things—best friend, star lacrosse player, werewolf—a mountaineer he was not.

            Stiles was not one to underestimate his friends. Having weathered countless storms together, Stiles possessed an iron-clad confidence in his pack’s ability to come to his rescue when needed. But as the chuiaels slid a claw-tipped hand up his abdomen, Stiles felt a quiver of doubt.

            “Look you don’t want to eat me. I’m way too stringy.”

            “I am not going to eat you.” The chuiaels’ voice rumbled deep inside its throat and echoed off the cave walls, like rocks in a blender.

            “Okay, well, you don’t want to dismember me either. Imagine the mess I’d make! You’d get it all over the carpet.”

            A noise rolled around somewhere inside the creature’s chest as it nuzzled its face into Stiles’ belly. Stiles thought it sounded like laughter.

            “I will not kill you…not yet. First, we shall have a little fun.” Fingers began working at the button of his jeans.

            “Woah woah woah, no, nuh uh, stranger danger, stop, that is my no-no square!” Stiles squirmed and twisted, but bound as he was he could not pull away from the chuiaels’ touch. He swatted ineffectively at it, till it caught his wrists with its other hand. He heard the metallic groan of his zipper come undone. Clammy skin pressed against the wiry track of hair leading into the hem of his boxers.

            Perhaps it was due to Stiles’ struggling and the ruckus it created, or perhaps chuiaels did not possess improved hearing, but neither it nor Stiles heard the padded step of wolves as Scott and the pack descended on the cave. The rigging which granted them access, an ingenious contraption conjured up by Argent, allowed them to quite literally get the drop on the chuiaels. One second Stiles felt bony, cold finger wrapping around his cock, and the next the hand was being whipped away with such sudden swiftness that a nail caught his belly, drawing a thin red line on his skin.

            Everything happened so fast, it was hard to follow. Malia ran interference, darting round the chuiaels in short, rapid bursts, while Liam tugged on Stiles’ torso, hoping to yank him free. But where was Scott? Stiles tried to find him in the confusion, but couldn’t.

            “Ow! Okay, squishy human here, remember?”

            “Sorry.” Liam flicked out a handful of claws and jumped, swiping at the molding around Stiles’ ankles. With a crack it shattered and Stiles toppled to the ground in an inelegant heap. “…sorry.”

            Stiles untangled his limbs and lifted his head to see a hand held out. He grasped it, felt familiar fingers wrap around his own. Scott tugged him to his feet, encircling an arm round his shoulders. His grip felt strong and Stiles leaned into it.

            “Someone took their sweet time.”

            “It’s been how long since you had a date? Figured I wouldn’t rush it.”

            Stiles opened his mouth for a particularly biting rejoinder, but Malia let out a pained cry, cutting him short. The chuiaels, bent low, had whipped round, shoving a shoulder hard into her solar plexus. She smacked into the wall behind her, her head knocking into the stone with a sickening _thud_. The chuiaels turned to where Stiles, Scott, and Liam stood huddled. It bared its mouthful of fangs in a vicious snarl.

            “Get back!” Scott swept his arm out, pushing Stiles away as he leapt to meet the chuiaels’ charge. He stumbled into Liam’s arms as Scott connected with the chuiaels, claw for claw, fang for fang. They moved fast, faster than Stiles could worry. Scott blurred as he watched, ducking beneath a wide swipe to rack over the creature’s exposed flank. The copper taste of blood spilled into the air. The chuiaels let out a shriek, high-pitched and splitting. Stiles clapped his hands over his ears. Scott seemed paralyzed, constricted by the chuiaels’ voice. It moved up and grabbed Scott, the red slash of its mouth open wide, with rows of dark, glistening teeth. It sunk a bite into the meat of Scott’s neck where it met shoulder. Scott snarled in pain.

            Stiles never saw Liam move, rather felt the rush of air as he flew past him to round on the chuiaels. He gripped it with both hands, lifting it into the air with impossible strength. He brought it down, hard, on the crucible of his knee.

            Somewhere out of sight, a crow cawed.

            Stiles came back to himself. He ran to Scott, hands tender at the swollen wound on his neck. “Are you—”

            “I’m fine.” Scott touched at his throat and his fingers came back blood black. “I’m already starting to heal. See?” True to word, the sharp punctures grew together before Stiles’ eyes. “What about you?”

            “I mean other than the concussion Liam gave me cutting me down, yeah.” Stiles buried his worry under humor, hoped no one cared to listen to his racing heartbeat. He turned, sweeping his eyes over his friends, over the people who’d risked their lives to save him. “Everyone else?”

            A chorus of _all good_ ’s. Stiles helped Scott to his feet, awash in relief. He held his hand for a slow count of three before he let go.

            Malia offered to take care of the body; Lydia drove them home. The drive home was quiet. Stiles leaned against the window and watched the world pass in flashes of streetlight. When they dropped him off at home, he clasped Scott once more on the shoulder, and just for a second, squeezed.

            “If anything happens—”

            “I’ll call.” Scott grabbed Stiles’ wrist. “Get some sleep. Kidnapping takes it out of you.”

            Stiles stood in the driveway and watched them leave. When the taillights at last faded from view he unlocked the door, slipped inside. The house slept—his dad would still be at the station. Hearing his voice when he’d called to stay he was fine hadn’t been enough. He wanted to fold into his dad’s arms, wanted, for a moment only, to be a child again. Safe.

            But he was alive. Stiles toed off his shoes and slumped upstairs. He collapsed into bed, fully dressed.

 

            Morning, the first rays of light streaming in through the windows. Stiles wakes, drifting towards the edge of consciousness when the bed sags beneath sudden weight. A familiar scent of cologne not his own. Something warm and alive moves beside him. Lips press against his neck, a tongue tastes his skin. Hands pull the sheets from his body. His naked flesh pimples in the sudden chill but then he is being touched everywhere at once. His cock bobs against his belly, fat and red. Stiles rolls over, rolls into Scott, into his embrace. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ back, grabs his ass, kisses him, hard, on the mouth. His cock rubs against Stiles’, slips into him. Scott is biting his lip and it feels so good, everything feels so good, and this heat is boiling up in his stomach and his thighs tighten and he draws up into himself as he comes, ropey strings wet against the meat of Scott’s abdomen and Scott is opening his mouth and—

            Stiles jerked awake with the blare of his alarm. He reached out, snapped it off, felt the sticky pull of his boxers on his thigh. His heart thundered in his ears. His pulse raced like he’d been chased. He felt sweaty, the inside of his shirt moist. A stale taste sat on his tongue. With a huff Stiles undressed. The air felt cool against his fevered flesh. The front of his underwear was stained wet, the fabric a dark circle of contrast. He stepped into the bathroom, turned on the shower, let it grow warm as steam billowed out, fogging the mirror. He slipped under the rush, felt the droplet scorch his skin. Gradually his muscles loosened and the scent of his body wash filled the bathroom, chasing away his dream. Stiles scrubbed till his skin went pink and raw, but still he could feel lips on his skin, could taste Scott on his tongue. Stiles stayed beneath the spray till the water ran cold and he began to shiver.

            “What, were you trying to drown or something?” His dad looked up from the newspaper as Stiles bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen. “You know we have to pay for all that hot water.”

            “Yeah, but do you really want to put a price on my personal hygiene?” The sheriff wrinkled his nose and put his coffee down “Yeah, that’s what I thought. And a _hey happy you’re alive_ to you too.” The sheriff stood to fold his son into an embrace. Stiles let himself be held. They parted and the sheriff sat back down. Stiles plucked an apple off the table, pinching a piece of toast between thumb and forefinger from out his dad’s hand.

            “I was eating that!”

            “Haven’t you told me breakfast was the most important meal of the day and you wanted me to be better about eating it?”

            “Yeah,” the sheriff stood to yell after Stiles as he dashed out the front door, “but not _my_ breakfast!”

            Stiles held the apple between his teeth as he opened the driver’s side door of the jeep, throwing his bag onto the passenger seat. He crunched through to core as he slid in, slamming the door shut and pulling the seatbelt across his body. Tart blossomed across his tongue, a bite of sour and sweet. The engine roared to life and the wheel rattled expectantly beneath his palm. With a few sputtering coughs and one disconcerting lurch Stiles backed the jeep out of the driveway, turning down the street towards school.

            He rolled down the window, letting the rush of chill, morning air smack his face, whipping his hair into a whirlwind. He tapped unrhythmically against the wheel, lost in the vortex of his own thoughts. No matter what avenue he turned down, his mind returned endlessly to his dream. It had felt so _real_ , Stiles half-expected Scott to have still been there next to him when he’d awoken, and he’d been disappointed when he hadn’t been. This, in and of itself, unsettled Stiles, twisting his stomach into a series of tight, interlocking knots. Scott was his best friend, more a brother really, but his dream had been anything but brotherly. Sure, Scott was attractive. Shit, Scott was downright _hot_. This wasn’t news to anyone, except maybe Scott himself, but definitely not Stiles. But Stiles had felt his appreciated veered more towards the aesthetic—the way you’d admire a fine painting or the elegant lines of a well-crafted automobile—instead of the sexual. Not that he was opposed to a little male _eros_. That was a conclusion he’d come to some while back, and he’d since put the personal crisis to bed. A sexual identity crisis was child’s play compared to werewolves. But this was the first time since middle school that Stiles had thought about Scott that way. There had been a stretch of months when Stiles couldn’t look at Scott without popping a boner and practically drooling. The agony of loving someone who’d never love you back…Stiles didn’t relish the chance to relive it. Above all things, Stiles cherished his friendship with Scott, and there was nothing in this world he’d trade it against. No kiss, no touch was worth what they had. True, it was only one dream, but Stiles had thought he’d long since put those feelings to bed. _Why, suddenly, now…?_

            Stiles slid into the parking spot, killed the engine and popped open his door. Grabbing his bag off the seat, Stiles locked up, hand up against the glare off the windows. Scott pulled up on his bike. Stiles kicked at gravel till he had killed the motor and cradled his helmet under his arm.

            “You look like shit.”

            “Hey, great, thanks, happy to see you too, Scotty.”

            “I mean it. Did you stay up all night or something?”

            Phantom lips kissed his neck. Stiles rubbed at his throat as his cheeks colored. “Uh, yeah, no, just a little tossing and turning. You don’t look too hot yourself.” The bags beneath Scott’s eyes dragged his face down to his ankles. Scott waved him off.

            “Just cleaning up after the chuiaels. Come on, we’re gunna be late.” Stiles watched Scott bound up the steps, only a second behind him. He studied the back of his head. Stiles didn’t need to be a werewolf to know Scott had been lying. A question stuffed Stiles’ mouth but the bell rang overhead as he parted his lips to set it free. Scott clapped him on the shoulder, gave him the briefest squeeze. Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.

            “See you in Lit.”

            Stiles’ skin, warmed from want, ached for the weight of Scott’s hand upon it.

 

            Try as he might, Stiles couldn’t concentrate in Calculus. Derivatives, integrals, numbers real and imagined flew past his head. His mind boiled with thoughts of Scott. What he lacked in ability on the lacrosse field, he made up for with moral certitude. A thing as simple as a crush could be easily crushed, the attention turned away. You didn’t get a locker sandwiched between Danny Mahonet and Jackson Whitmore without learning to keep your eyes straight. Yet try as he might, Stiles couldn’t stop imagining the press of Scott’s body atop his own, the thick smell of his hair filling his nose, his hands drifting down, down, down—

            “Mr. Stilinski!”

            Stiles snapped to attention, half-falling out of his desk. “Yes, Mrs. Callahan?”

            “The answer to number 13, if you please.”

            Stiles looked down at his open textbook. “There is no number 13.”

            Mrs. Callahan kneaded a knuckled against her temple. “Turn the page, Mr. Stilinski.”

            Stiles scrambled, getting a papercut. The equations swam before his eyes. An expectant air hung in the room. He panicked.

            “Um, actually, I have to go to the bathroom.” Stiles stood and scooped up his bag.

            “Mr. Stilinski, please seat—”

            “Mhm, yeah, I would,” Stiles edged towards the door, “but it’s an emergency. A big emergency.” Before she could say another word, Stiles slipped out the classroom. His heartbeat seemed to boom in the quiet of the hallway. As he strode past closed doors, the murmured lessons blended together into a hushed, background hum.

            No one was in the bathroom. Stiles stepped into the handicap stall, locking the door and letting his bag slip onto the ground. He collapsed onto the toilet, catching his head in his hands. The front of his jeans constricted painfully against his erection.

            “What am I, thirteen?” Stiles muttered as he unbuttoned his pants, shoving them down mid-thigh. The front of his boxers, pockmarked with dark, wet stains, tented expectantly. He freed his cock, which slapped against his stomach. He fisted it, groaning. He opened his palm, spitting, and began a quick, slick glide. It felt impossibly good. Stiles let his head fall back against the tiled wall as he stroked, fingers wrapping around the hot length of his cock. He bit his lip hard enough to bruise, but it was all he could do to keep from crying out. His skin felt on fire, color rushing up his neck, and his pulse raced. Had jacking off always felt this _good_?

            In his rapture, Stiles didn’t hear someone come in. Behind his eyelids Scott swam, warm, brown skin taunt over muscle and bone. Stiles’ mouth moved, planting imagined kisses on the air. The tip of his cock gushed, the head slick with precum. Stiles felt his balls tighten, his grip vice-like, as his hand flew impossibly fast up and down, up and down. He teetered on the edge, the tight coil in his stomach wound near to the point of breaking, as he careened headfirst towards his orgasm.

            Someone banged, hard, on the stall door. Stiles started, nearly falling off the toilet, spilling all over his hand and dripping onto his jeans. He swore under his breath as he grabbed handfuls of toilet paper to wipe up. Someone banged again, the door rattling.

            “Occupied!” Stiles wiped at his fingers and cock, dropping the used wads into the toilet. He did his best to clean up his jeans, but he knew there’d be a telling stain. Whoever was on the other side of the door didn’t stop, but kept banging till the lock rattled and shook. “Dude, what part of occupied aren’t you getting?” Stiles stood and flushed, pulling his jeans up and rebuttoning them. The banging reached a fever pitch and Stiles worried that they’d break the door down. He scooped up his bag and unlatched the stall. “You want the stall so badly, here it—Scott?”

            On the other side of the door Scott stood, stance wide, a glassy look in his eyes. His hands curled into fists, his breath came in rapid puffs through flared nostrils. He didn’t move as Stiles slipped past him, turning on the faucet to wash his hands. “That’ll teach you to trust Taco Tuesday. Stuff’s brutal.” When Stiles looked up, he saw that Scott had moved behind him, his face hovering above Stiles’ shoulder in the mirror. He started, spinning round and half-falling onto the counter. “Jeez, Scotty, give me a heart attack why don’t you?”

            Scott didn’t move. Stiles felt the space between them as he backed up into the counter, its sharp edge cutting into his lower back. Heat rolled off Scott’s body. In a rush, his dream came back to him. Though he stared into Stiles eyes, it was as if Scott didn’t see him. He swallowed. “Okay, well, shouldn’t you, you know, go take care of business or…” Scott stepped closer, his body pressed against Stiles. His mouth opened to reveal fangs. Stiles scrambled back with nowhere to go, his hand slipping over the faucet, which broke off and sprayed forth a stream of cold water. Scott stumbled backwards, a hand slicking water off his face. When he looked up again, his eyes were the same warm brown he’d always known.

            “…what?” Scott looked about himself. “This isn’t Econ.”

            “No, really Scott?” Stiles edged out from beneath him. He wiped down the front of his shirt, ignoring the tremor in his hand. “Want to explain what all that” Stiles gestured vaguely in the air between them “was about?”

            “What what was all about?” Scott’s brows knitted together as he looked between Stiles and the stalls, catching his own reflection in the mirror. “I don’t…I don’t remember coming in here.”

            “What, like, at all?”

            Scott shook his head. “No. Last thing I remember I was sitting in class.”

            “Okay, but specifically. What were you doing? Can you remember what you were thinking about?” Stiles fought to keep the worry out of his voice, but he felt like a freshman again, untested, with his best friend waking up half-naked in the woods.

            Color rushed to Scott’s cheeks and he ducked Stiles’ gaze. “Just daydreaming. Nothing in particular.” Scott fidgeted, shuffling from foot to foot. Stiles reached out to steady him, but Scott flinched from his touch. “I should get back to class.” Scott brushed past him before Stiles could say anything, the bathroom door swinging shut between them.

            Worry knotted itself deep in Stiles’ stomach. He stepped to follow Scott, sloshing through a rapidly growing puddle of water, just as the bathroom door swung open again.

            “Stilinski! What the hell happened here?” Coach barred Stiles exit, his sneakers steadily soaking through. Stiles gaped, open-mouthed and dumb.

            “I…I, well, you see—” Coach grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, tossing him through the doorway.

            “For goodness sake, go get someone from maintenance. And Stilinski!” Stiles, who’d already run halfway down the hall, skidded to a halt and turned back to caught Coach’s ire. “Detention, last bell!”

 _Of course_ , Stiles thought _, just my luck_.

 

            The hours of the day dragged on interminably. Stiles developed a kink in his neck from craning to check the time. How could he have been working for forty minutes when only eight had actually passed? He wondered if this was how the condemned felt, though he wasn’t fully prepared to rule out time magic. By the end of the day he’d nearly gone mad. No sign of Scott since the bathroom, and he hadn’t replied to any of Stiles’ texts. Neither Lydia nor Malia felt there was anything to be concerned about, but Liam promised to keep his eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. But this being Beacon Hills, that wasn’t saying much.

            Save for the teacher shafted with supervision, Stiles had detention to himself. He took a seat towards the back of the class, dropping his bag onto the table. He hunched low in his seat so that, behind cover, he could check his phone—still no word from Scott. He let his head drop onto his bag, his textbook splayed open to a random page, and pretended to read.

            The afternoon light cut the room in two, the bright beam dividing the chair in front of Stiles. His seat warmed in the sun and the ticking of the clock faded to a pleasant heartbeat. His eyes grew heavy as his breathing slowed.

            All around him, dark. The smell of sweat and grass. The lacrosse field. The lights flash on, blinding. Rush of victory, pump of adrenaline. Scott scoring the winning goal. The crooked tilt of his smile. Stiles’ palms sweaty, grip slick on his stick. Suddenly not a stick. The firmness of Scott in his hand. A flash of fang. Red eyes. A roar like a thunderclap.

            The textbook slammed shut inches from his head. Stiles startled awake, falling from his chair, arms flailing for support. Mr. Demer stood, arms crossed, eyebrows bunched together disapprovingly.

            “This is detention, Mr. Stilinski, not naptime.”

            He returned to his perch at the head of the class as Stiles regained his seat. He shamed his thighs together around the uncomfortable tightness of his crotch, crossing them beneath the table. He felt himself leaking onto his inner thigh.

            “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Stiles whispered. He squirmed, tugging at his jeans. In so doing, his phone fell out of his pocket and clattered to the ground.  He bent to pick it up, clicking the home button. A text from Liam popped onto the screen. Stiles swiped it open.

            **Something’s up with Scott.**

            Stiles pulse up-ticked. He hunched down behind his bag, fingers flying over the keyboard.

            _What happened?_

            **I can’t find him _._ We were supposed to meet after school. Is he with you?**

Stiles tried very hard not to panic. He opened up messages to Lydia, Malia, and Kira, asking if any of them had seen Scott before replying to Liam.

            _No. In detention. I’ll check house. Call Deaton_.

            Stiles stood, shouldering his bag. Mr. Demer looked up from the paper he’d been grading. “Mr. Stilinski, detention isn’t over for another—”

            “Family emergency!” Stiles called as he rushed out the door. “My cat is on fire!”

            Stiles barely closed the driver side door before he started the jeep, throwing it into reverse as he tore from the parking lot. His eyes darted between the road and his phone, checking for updates. No one had seen Scott since school let out, and he wasn’t scheduled to work that afternoon.  Stiles ran two red lights, speeding through intersections. He turned sharp enough for two of the jeep’s wheels to pop off the pavement, nearly swiping an old lady crossing the street. He skidded into Scott’s driveway, narrowly avoiding his mailbox. Stiles didn’t even bother to cut the engine as he barreled up the front steps. He fumbled with the key, stumbling over the threshold as the door suddenly swung open. Stiles collapsed onto Scott’s chest, and it was only werewolf strength that kept them from tumbling onto the floor.

            “Stiles!” Scott steadied him, holding him out at arms’ length. “What are you doing?”

            “I—you—we—” Stiles wheezed between each word. He gestured wildly with his hands, pantomiming school, Liam, seeing, Scott, driving, and several concepts lost entirely on Scott. He arched an eyebrow as Stiles bent double, hands on knees, sucking in lungfuls of air. “Thought you were missing.”

            “I went straight home.” Scott reached over Stiles to shut the door. “Why’d you think I was missing?”

            “Liam said—”

            “Aw, shit!” Scott ran his fingers through his hair, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Stiles watched in earnest. “I completely forgot we were supposed to meet up. I’ve been sorta out of it all day.” Stiles remembered to look into Scott’s eyes when he spoke, but his mind stayed fixed on his mouth. “Did you rush all the way here just cause I missed a study session?”

            “Well, I mean, come on. It’s Beacon Hills. Is that such an overreaction?”

            Scott pulled Stiles into his chest, ruffling his hair. A pleasant musk filled Stiles’ nose. “Where would I be without you keeping me safe?”

            “Dead.” Stiles mouth had gone suddenly dry. “Very dead. Possibly buried. So be grateful.”

            “Believe me, I am.” Scott let Stiles go, and it was all he could do to stop himself reaching out again and pulling Scott close. “I’ll be even more grateful if you help me study for my bio test though.”

            “Sure, what are friends for?”

 

            Stiles tried very hard not to be very hard. He’d been quizzing Scott for the last forty-five minutes, curled up on Scott’s desk chair, textbook open on his lap. Scott sprawled out on his bed, head hanging off the edge. He fiddled absentmindedly with the drawstring of his sweats. His shirt had ridden up his stomach, revealing a scant trail of faint hair. Stiles looked back down at the page.

            “The _blank_ is the powerhouse of the cell.”

            “Mitochondria?” Scott reached under his shirt to scratch at this chest. Stiles stared at the flash of flesh as he pulled his hand out. “Right?”

            “Ding ding ding.” Stiles shut the textbook, but kept it in place. “You’ll do fine.” Scott rolled over, stretching back onto his heels, ass in the air. Stiles thought of puppies, nuns, and the less fortunate, but nothing stopped the blood from rushing to his dick.

            “Are you hungry? I could eat a horse.” Scott sat up, thighs spread apart. Stiles was starving, but not for food.

            “I, uh, let me run to the restroom first.” Stiles stood, holding the textbook over his lap in what he hoped was a casual manner. Stiles made for the bedroom door. He felt the weight of Scott’s eyes watching him.

            “Need some bathroom reading?” Scott pointed to the textbook. “Why don’t you use my bathroom?”

            “Trust me, Scotty, you don’t want me to use your bathroom.”

            Stiles turned his back, dropping the textbook on the desk. Stiles bounded down the stairs, sliding into the guest bathroom. He locked the door and leaned his back against it, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. He pulled down his boxers, letting his cock pop free. It flopped out, red and heavy, the tip wet. He spit into his palm, slicking it over his cock. He shuddered at the touch, knees going weak. _What the fuck is wrong with me_? Stiles had been fourteen the last time he’d had to slip away and jack off at Scott’s, and that was only after he’d woken up to find Scott rubbing himself beneath the sheets. Where was his self-control? Stiles let his head loll back against the wood as he tugged himself off in rapid strokes. He chewed his bottom lip to stop himself from moaning, careful of werewolf hearing. He balled his hand into a fist, his nails biting into the meat of his palm. His hips bucked against the door, loud enough for Scott to hear, but Stiles was beyond the point of care. His balls tightened as he spilled over his fingers, dripping onto the floor.

            Stiles slid down the door, knees into his chest. His breath came ragged and heavy, the color rising to his cheeks. He felt hot, the underside of his arms sweaty. His mouth hung open. He leaned forward to grab a handful of tissues off the toilet, wiping at his hand. He tossed the balled up tissues into the toilet. His dick bobbed expectantly; he didn’t feel the same rush of relief that normally followed his candid ministrations. Something gnawed at his stomach, a hunger he couldn’t place.

            Stiles stood to wash his hands. He ran the water hot, till his fingers rouged and threatened to blister. He scrubbed, splashing water onto his dick, and wiped himself clean with the guest towel. Try as he could, he couldn’t turn his thoughts from Scott, just upstairs, spread out on his bed like a feast. How simple to return to him, to throw his body atop his, to take his mouth with his own. Stiles twisted the tap, cupping a handful of cold water and dashing it against his face.

            “Get a hold of yourself.” Stiles stared back at his worn reflection, the deep bags beneath his eyes. He watched the water _drip drip drip_ into the sink before drying his face off with the hem of his shirt. Stiles clicked the door open, steeling himself for an evening of slow torture.

            Scott blocked the doorway. Stiles startled at his sudden apparition, scrambling away. His back bumped hard into the edge of the sink. “Geez! What, is this a habit now?” Scott stared, unspeaking, his eyes distant. He stalked into the bathroom. Stiles, nowhere to run, pressed back into the sink, rising up to half-sit on it. Scott brought his face inches from Stiles. His nostrils flared as he sniffed at Stiles’ neck, then down past the curve of his shoulder, nuzzling at his underarm. “Um, okay, is this some new werewolf thing or—” Scott grabbed Stiles’ hips and held him in place as he sunk to his knees, nose dragging down the line of Stiles’ stomach. He nosed open Stiles’ hand, rubbing his face against his palm.

            Stiles stood transfixed. The blood rushed alternately to his face—which shone crimson—and his cock, which hardened in his jeans inches from Scott’s face. Scott looked up from where he crouched on the ground; his eyes shimmered black, devoid of iris and white. Stiles pushed back with all his strength, bringing his knee up by instinct into the underside of Scott’s chin. Bone connected with bone, and Scott went sprawling backwards, falling onto the hallway floor. His head smacked against the ground.

            “Shit, Scott, Scotty, you okay?” Stiles hurried to kneel by Scott’s side, cradling his head in his hands. Scott blinked his eyes open, looked at Stiles with the same warm, brown irises he’d known since he was eight. He sat up with a groan, hand rubbing at his jaw. “What the fuck was that?”

            “I…I don’t…” Scott made to stand, but wobbled on his feet. He crashed back into the wall, leaning his weight heavily against it. Stiles tried to loop an arm around his waist to support him, but Scott pushed his hand away. “I’m fine. I think you should go.”

            “Scott, I was just—”

            “Just. Go, please.” Scott refused to look at Stiles, wouldn’t turn his head to catch his eye but stared instead at a point on the ground. Stiles hovered on the edge of hesitation, his hands suspended in the space between them, fingers begging to help, to touch. His mouth hung open, empty and dumb. Something inside him screamed _stay! stay!_ , wishing desperately to fix whatever was breaking inside Scott, inside them both. But a coldness blew from Scott that Stiles had never felt before, and though they stood inches apart, he felt as if he were shouting across a ravine, Scott some distant star hurtling out of reach. He turned and left without a word.

 

            It was 2:14am when Stiles finally collapsed into bed. His eyes itched from want of sleep, his vision long since gone blurry from extended research online. He had no less than fourteen tabs open and enough printouts scattered across his floor to deforest a significant portion of the Amazon. All for naught. Stiles was no closer to understanding what the chuiaels—as Dr. Deaton had called it—had done to Scott. Nowhere he’d searched had made anyone mention of possession or poison, Stiles’ top two working theories to explain what the fuck was happening with him. He’d gone so far as to Google _why is my best friend suddenly turning me on while simultaneously trying to kill me_ , but the results had been less than helpful. He’d left half a dozen voicemails on Christ Argent’s phone, hoping the bestiary would contain _something_ useful, but as yet had had no response. Had his hair been long enough, Stiles would have ripped it out in frustration. Defeated, he left his desk chair, back creaking from extended bad posture, not bothering to brush his teeth or undress, instead falling onto his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

            Or so he’d hoped. Stiles tossed and turned, his mind racing with thoughts of Scott. And not just of his own impending doom. He remembered the first time he’d met Scott—eight, at the supermarket, their mothers’ carts colliding—and when they’d officially decided to be best friends, ten years old and sealed with blood. Scott was the first person he told when his mother died; if he closed his eyes, Stiles could still recall how Scott’s smile had broken, how desperately Stiles had wanted it not to be true, not for his own sake, but Scott’s, to tell him it was some cruel joke. How he’d willed that smile back. Stiles swore he’d never be responsible for robbing Scott of his joy ever again.

            The years blurred, memories falling out of order. Their first day of high school, the asthma attack that landed Scott in the hospital, their first lacrosse game, the dawning awareness of Scott’s changing body, the sudden appearance of dark, wiry hair and Stiles’ jealousy as his own lack. When Scott told Stiles’ he’d kissed a girl, the spark in his eyes the first time he’d seen Allison, listening over and over as he described the sweet softness of her body. Stiles imagined him with her, the hard line of his back undulating in the dimness of his bedroom. The weight of him atop her, the fullness of him in her. Slowly, Allison faded from thought and Stiles replaced her. It was his mouth Scott kissed, his hips he gripped, pulled, turned over. Teeth nipped at his shoulder, breath hot against his ear, the familiar scent of Scott—musk and sweat and Old Spice deodorant—filling his nose. _Yes_ , Stiles thought _, yes_ , this was what he wanted, what he could only admit in the darkness of his room, free from the fear of rejection, from the tender look in Scott’s eyes as he explained, _Stiles, I love you like a brother_ …But Stiles’ desires ran far from familial. He wanted nails down his back, teeth on his bottom lip, he wanted to be crushed beneath the weight of Scott’s body, wanted to be subsumed.

            His mind turned, thoughts getting away from his. They were no longer in Scott’s room—pristine but for the unwashed clothes hanging discarded off every surface—but Stiles’, the air thick with familiarity. There was the crunch of paper underfoot, a breeze from the open window sending them ruffling across the floor. The squeak of his bed as it dipped beneath Scott’s weight. The cry of his zipper, the sudden chill of exposed skin. Fingers on his face. Scott’s face above his, his eyes…his eyes—black as midnight.

            Stiles awoke with a gasp, caught his own terrified expression in the emptiness of Scott’s gaze. His arms bracketed his head, thighs on either side of his hips, hemming him in. Stiles tried to edge out from beneath him, but Scott pressed him down onto the mattress. The hand on his chest felt crushing, his breath suppressed.

            “Scott, Scott what are you—”

            “ _Shh_.” Scott pressed a finger to his lips. Stiles’ eye watched the claw, long and thin, poised over his face. “No more questions. I know what you want.” Scott let his fingers ghost down Stiles’ body to cup his jeans. Despite himself, Stiles let out a moan as Scott kneaded and squeezed. “What you’ve wanted for _so_ long, longer even than you know.” Scott plucked at the button of Stiles’ jeans, slipping a hand inside the waistband of his boxers. “Why fight it now, when everything you’ve always wanted is right here?” Scott lowered his face to Stiles’ neck and pressed fiery kisses to his skin, nose nuzzling at his jaw. “I can give it to you, I can give you what he never could.”

            Stiles’ heart beat madness in the cage of his ribs. His mind raced with adrenaline. His body betrayed him as another pleasure-riddled groan slipped from his mouth, hips rising instinctively to Scott’s touch. Stile screwed his eyes shut, shook his head, opened them to see the void of Scott’s eyes staring down at him. Stiles reached overhead, hand feeling for purchase on his bedside table. His fingers wrapped around the lamp. He seized it, bringing it down hard on the crown of Scott’s head. The ceramic shattered with a shout as Scott collapsed, dazed, atop him. Stiles scrambled out from underneath him, backing away from the bed. He grabbed the bat that rested against the wall, hugging it to his chest defensively. Scott rose onto his elbow, shaking pieces of broken ceramic from his hair. He twisted, neck unnaturally agile, to glare back at Stiles. A grimace cracked open across his face, revealing a mouth full of teeth, black and sharp as knifes.

            “Don’t fight it, Stiles.” The voice was Scott’s, but not the words. “You know you want me. I can feel it in your blood.” Scott stepped off the bed and stalked closer to Stiles. Stiles held the bat out in warning. “Just let go, Stiles. _Give in_.” Scott’s voice dropped low and dripped with something sick and slick.

            “Stay back.” Stiles swung the bat in the empty air. “Don’t make me do this, Scotty. Please.”

            “Scotty’s not here, Stiles.”

The black of the chuiaels’ eyes caught the streetlight as it lunged. Stiles swung, the bat connecting hard with Scott’s skull. The room shook with the wooden _knock_. He crumbled at Stiles’ feet, dazed but still conscious. Stiles dropped the bat and ran, scooping up his car keys off his desk as he tore from the house.

            Stiles’ fingers shook as he fumbled the key into the ignition. His tires screeched and he sped out the driveway, not bothering to look back as he threw the car into drive, speeding off into the night.

 

            “The important thing now is not to panic.” Deaton looked from Stiles, to Liam, to Malia. “Panicking won’t help Scott.”

            “Yeah, but will it help _me_?” Stiles dug his hands into his pockets to keep his fingers from shaking. Outside a dog barked in the distance. The windows of the clinic hid the world beyond, every light on inside. Stiles could never stand uncovered windows at night; he didn’t like the idea of someone being able to see him, and not the other way around. “Doc, what’s the plan here?”

            Deaton turned to Liam and Malia. “Do you think you’ll be able to pick up Scott’s scent?”

            “Yes.”

            “Maybe.” Malia raised a brow at Liam, who ducked her gaze. “I mean yes.”

            “Finding Scott won’t be our biggest challenge. Subduing him will.”

            “I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” Malia flicked out her claws, flexing her fingers.

            “Okay, Malia, we’re trying to _save_ Scott. Not maim him.”

            “I know.” Malia retracted her claws. “Besides, he’d heal.”

            Liam stepped to the table Deaton had spread his vials and herbs across. “What do we do once we find him?”

            “We’ll want to lure him to the lake house. Lydia’s there setting up the trap Chris designed.”

            “Okay.” Stiles licked his lips and wished he could stop tapping his foot. “And then what?”

            Deaton looked at him for a long moment with eyes that held an answer they didn’t want to give. “Why don’t you two get started? Liam, patrol the area around the school. Malia—”

            “I’ll take the woods.” She left, Liam loping behind her.

            The clinic felt suddenly empty, the quiet oppressive. Every twitch, every tap, every breath Stiles took boomed in the stillness. Deaton moved around the surgical table to lay an avuncular hand on his shoulder.

            “We’re going to save him, Stiles.”

            “But what’s wrong with him?” Stiles didn’t ask the question burning on the tip of his tongue, _and what’s wrong with_ me?

            Something heavy settled on Deaton’s face, and he suddenly looked the age Stiles had always suspected he was. He gripped Stiles’ shoulder, but he felt more pressured than reassured. “When Scott came to rescue you, he was injured, you remember?”

            “The chuiaels bit him, yeah, but he healed.”

            “On the surface, yes.” Deaton spread out an array of papers dotted with arcane designs. A woodblock recreation seemed to show the chuiaels bursting forth from a man’s chest, his face contorted in anguished horror. Stiles’ stomach dropped down around his ankles. He gripped the table to stay upright. “But the chuiaels is an insidious creature. Its bite isn’t designed simply to harm its victim, but impregnate it.”

            “Wait—” Stiles’ head spun and he shook his thoughts clear “—Scott’s _pregnant_?”

            “Not in the sense you’re thinking of. You see, the chuiaels injects a neurotoxin into its victim, but instead of paralyzing or killing, it assumes control.” Deaton picked up a small vial filled with a viscous, piceous liquid and held it to the light. “When the chuiaels bit Scott, it injected him with a lethal dose of venom.”

            “But you said the chuiaels didn’t want to kill him.”

            “Not in the traditional sense, no. But the longer the poison works its way through Scott’s system, the less of Scott will remain.”

            “Until…” Stiles looked down at the woodblock. He saw Scott, ribs stabbed through torn flesh, his eyes gone black.

            “Until the chuiaels assumes its new host fully. Luckily, I’ve been able to work up an antidote from the sample I gathered from the chuiaels’ corpse.” Deaton held aloft another vial, which contained a few centiliters of amber liquid.

            “Great, so once Liam and Malia get Scott to the lake house we make him drink this and he’s back to normal.”

            “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Scott’s been exposed to the chuiaels’ venom longer than any case I’ve studied before. The antidote will take too long to take effect if absorbed through his stomach lining.”

            “Okay, so what, do we inject him? You’ve got needles, right?” A nervous energy took over Stiles, no longer able to stand still. He paced the clinic, pulling out drawers of medical supplies. “We just _pfft—_ ” Stiles mimicked the plunger on a hypodermic needle “—and we got our Alpha back.”

            “Injection isn’t a viable method either.”

            Stiles rounded on Deaton, slamming his palms onto the sterile operating table. “Okay, then what’s the plan, Doc? Whatever it is, get on with it, we don’t have time!”

            “The antidote must be administered as a suppository. And you have to be the one to do it.”

            The wires in Stiles’ brain short-circuited. He laughed a high, anxious laugh. “You’re joking. You’re…you’re joking.”

            “I’m afraid not. If we want to save Scott’s life, this is the only way I know how.”

            “This can’t be real. This sounds like something out of a bad porno. I…why me? You’re the medical professional.”

            “From everything you’ve told me, I believe you’re the only one who’d be able to get close enough to Scott to administer the antidote. For whatever reason, the chuiaels seems drawn to you.”

            Stiles felt like he’d be sick. He palmed his stomach. Beneath the cotton of his shirt, he felt a thin, red scar. “How am I even supposed to…” Stiles gestured to the vial. “What if he—it—tries to kill me?”

            “The chuiaels feeds on sexual energy, as I’m sure you’ve ascertained. If the chuiaels believes it has sway over you, it should let its guard down enough for you to slip Scott the antidote.”

            “And then what? ‘Oh, hey Scotty, glad you’re alive, sorry about the whole vial in your ass thing.’” Stiles laughed a joyless laugh.

            “I know this is unorthodox. But it’s the only way to save your friend.” Deaton slid the vial across the table. It caught the light and shone, as if lit from within. Stiles’ heart raced and his hand shook as he took it, slipping it into his pocket.

            “What’re friends for, right?”

 

            Stiles shivered, more from nerves than cold. The moon rippled on the smooth surface of the lake. The stillness of the night was broken by the rattle of chains and teeth-rattling roars coming from inside the lake house. Lydia crossed her arms and shook her head.

            “I’m happy to help out, but why am I always saddled with the cleanup? Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of carpet?”

            “I wish I didn’t.” Stiles fingered the vial in his pocket. His heart refused to slow. He’d spent the last thirty minutes wearing down a moat in the ground around his jeep, till Lydia had complained he’d give her acid reflux. “How much longer is this gunna take?”

            “I don’t know, Stiles, do you want me to go in there and ask?”

            Stiles offered up a hopeful glance. “…you’re joking, right?”

            Stiles was spared whatever biting remark Lydia had saved up by the front door swinging open. Liam and Malia limped out, rubbing at bruised ribs, tender wounds still bleeding on their limbs and faces.

            “We got him,” Liam groaned, “it wasn’t easy, but we got him.”

            “It would’ve gone faster if you’d let me do it my way.” Malia popped her shoulder back into joint.

            “Somehow I don’t think Scott would have appreciated us breaking his legs, even if it was in order to save his life.”

            A silence fell over them as all eyes turned towards Stiles. His feet felt made of lead, unable to take a single step. Liam lowered his head to catch his eyes.

            “If you want we can—”

            “No. Deaton said it had to be me. Besides, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen Scott’s sheriff badge.” No one laughed at his joke. Stiles’ mouth felt dry, his throat tight.

            “If you need us, we’ll be right outside.” Malia offered as kind a smile as she could. Lydia placed a hand on his arm, squeezed, and let it drop away.

            Stiles made his way through the lake house. Everywhere betrayed signs of the struggle—an upended table, a shattered lamp, claw marks along the walls and floorboards. Stiles stiffened at the quiet, every noise threatening. He crept down the basement stairs, ashamed at his own hesitation. _You’re doing this to save Scott’s life_ , he told himself again and again. Yet still a ball of excitement boiled in the pit of his belly, on the verge of spilling forth into his whole body. _He’d do it for you_. Stiles steeled himself at the foot of the stairs before opening the basement door.

            They’d bolted the chains to the walls, deep into the support beams. Scott would have to bring the whole first floor down with him if he wanted to escape. Bound at wrist and neck, Scott slumped against the far wall, shirt torn free. His chest marveled, remarkably free of injury. The chains rattled as he lifted his head. A sickly sweet smile broke out across his face.

            “Stiles. You came for me.” Scott crawled onto his hands and knees till the chains pulled taunt. “I knew you’d come for me.” Stiles ignored the play of Scott’s muscles as he struggled to come closer, to touch Stiles as he glided softly across the room, pulled by the terrible gravity of the black void of Scott’s eyes. The air, suffused with sweat and blood, caught in Stiles’ throat as he gasped, Scott’s fingers pulling at his clothes. Stiles sunk to his knees, told himself he was doing this for Scott, that there was no other way, denied the thrill as Scott nuzzled at the crook of his neck. Scott palmed roughly at the crotch of his jeans, kneading against the stiffness of Stiles’ thrusts. Lips attacked his mouth, pulling and nipping, lowering his defenses till a tongue slipped liquor sweet inside. A thumb flicked over the button of his jeans, fingers pulled incessant at his zipper, till he sprang free. Scott gripped his cock, tugged and slid his hand over him.

            “ _Fuck_ , Scott. Scott, fuck.” Stiles dragged his nails down the ridge of Scott’s back, digging deep into the muscled mound of his ass. He pushed at his jeans, tore at the button till they slid down his tensed thighs. The tip of Scott’s cock, engorged, red and dripping, slapped against Stiles’ stomach, nudged at his bellybutton. Stiles grabbed it like a lifeline, tugged at Scott with frantic, fevered pulls, thumb swiping across his fluttered slit.

            Scott’s lips danced across Stiles’ pulse, nipping at his neck, sucking at the juncture of his shoulder, tongue swiping at his collarbone. He moved back up, teeth scraping at the hard line of his jaw, sucking the lobe of his ear, tugging, kissing. Stiles pushed Scott back gently, down onto his back, relieving him of his jeans. The breath caught in his throat at the sight of him, sprawled out on display, legs hitched up in the air, on offer. Greedy fingers snaked down to toy with his hole, Scott’s throat bobbing, dead eyes drawing Stiles in.

            “Please,” Scott breathed as he slipped a finger inside, “ _please_ , Stiles.” Stiles fought it, tried to remember all Deaton had said, but then he found himself sucking at the pert bud of Scott’s nipple, the sharp line of nails dragging down his back. He arched into the touch, biting harder than he’d ever dared, harder than if this had been Scott, _really_ Scott. Stiles forced the thought away. A hand wrapped around his cock, brought it next to Scott’s, began tugging them off together. A brilliant, burning friction curled Stiles’ toes, made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Scott squeezed, and Stiles felt himself tip towards the edge. He pulled back out of reach. Scott tugged at the chain, hands outstretched, imploring.

            “Turn over.” The gruff command of his own voice surprised him. He grabbed Scott’s hips, flipping him. With his knee he nudged Scott’s thighs apart, still he was splayed out, ass up. He pushed back against Stiles’ hands. Stiles found where his jeans had landed, plucked the vial from his pocket. He licked at his lips, ignored the booming desire, the unsightly press of want, urging him to sink his face between Scott’s cheeks, to take him, then and there. He fumbled with the lid when Scott snaked a hand beneath his body to grab at Stiles’ balls. Amber liquid spilled out onto his palm. He swore, cupping his hand to preserve it. With his elbow he leaned against Scott, spreading him. His hole winked.

            He worked the lip of the vial into the ring of muscle. It slotted into place, Scott squeezing reflexively around it, holding it tight. Stiles watched the antidote drain into him. A shudder ran up Scott’s spine, the muscles of his back and thigh tensed to breaking. Stiles slipped the empty vial free, letting it drop to the floor. He held his breath, not daring to move. Scott’s breath came heavy in the quiet of the lake house. He panted as he shook, muscles flexing, pressing back once more against Stiles’ cock.

            “Fuck me. Please.” Scott dug his fists into the ground, pushed back, his ass grinding against Stiles. Stiles steadied himself with a hand on Scott’s lower back, mind too frightened to think properly. _Why hadn’t it worked_ , he worried, _Deaton said the antidote_ —He looked to his oil-slicked palm. Stiles cursed his clumsiness, his great ineptitude. He’d wasted the only thing that could save Scott. Unless…

            Stiles slicked his cock, the antidote running viscous over him. Thoroughly coated, he gripped Scott’s hips to position him. Scott buried his face in his arms, spreading his legs even further. Stiles’ cock glistened as he steadied himself, the tip poised above Scott’s hole. He pressed in, Scott grunting at the pressure. Warm, wet tightness enveloped Stiles. He shuddered, nails biting into the flesh of Scott’s upper thighs.

            Scott moved against him, ass gliding along the length of Stiles’ cock. Stiles faltered, fell forward, his chest leaning heavy on Scott’s back. Scott lifted to his elbows, riding back against him. Stiles’ forehead lolled against Scott’s shoulder. His mouth hung open in rapt ecstasy, his heart full to bursting. His bit, hard, at the back of Scott’s neck to keep from crying out. The room filled with Scott’s moans, his soft grunts of pleasure as he smacked his hips backwards. Slowly his wordless sounds morphed into an endless litany, a mantra, a prayer.

            “Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, StilesStilesStiles—”

            “Scott, I, _fuck_ , Scott I’m—I’m gunna—” Stiles bucked, balls slapping against Scott’s ass, all his breath leaving him in a gust, gut-punched. He came, spilling out deep inside Scott. Scott tightened around him as he shot onto the floor, body racked with the rolling waves of his orgasm. Stiles’ forehead, prickled with sweat, rubbed lazy against Scott’s back as he gulped down air. Scott’s arm shook with the weight of their combined bodies.

            Stiles slid from Scott, his cock popping free, still dripping. _Let it have worked_ , Stiles prayed, _please God, let it have worked_. He sat back on his heels, waiting. He watched his cum leak out of Scott’s puffed-up hole. Waves of shame and guilt doused the arousal still smoldering in the pit of his stomach. _What have I done_?

            “S-Stiles?” Scott’s voice, wrecked and raw, clawed out of his throat in a scratchy cough. He slumped to the ground, turning to look back at him over his shoulder. His eyes…his warm, big, beautiful brown eyes. Stiles almost wept. “You…”

            Stiles wanted to throw his arms around Scott, to hug him close, to kiss his bruised mouth. But the pinched, crinkled corners of Scott’s eyes, the slight downturn of his lips, stayed him. _How much did he remember_ , Stiles worried, _how much did he suspect_? The chuiaels had seen into the heart of Stiles’ secrets, had awaken feelings he thought he’d long since buried. Did Scott know the truth? How to explain what he had just done, the advantage he’d taken? Would Scott believe he’d done it, done everything, to save him? But even Stiles could not deny the sick pleasure he’d taken in so doing. Scott laid a hand on his knee; Stiles flinched away as if burnt.

            “I’m glad you’re okay.” Stiles could not bring himself to look Scott in the eyes. A sob caught in his throat, threatening to choke him. “I…I should go. Here, let me—” He found the key Malia had slipped him, unlocking the restraints. Scott rubbed at his wrists, fingers touching the tender circle of his throat.

            Scott watched him dress, not moving to grab his own clothes. The weight of his gaze felt crushing. A single word would break him, would reduce him to dust and scatter him to the wind. _You did it for him,_ he told himself, but if he didn’t believe it, how could Scott? Scott called to him when Stiles reached the threshold of the door.

            “Stiles.” He turned, one foot on the stairs. So unashamed in all his naked glory. Stiles dared not look. “Thank you.”

            Stiles waited till he was in his jeep driving home, having hastily delivered the good news to those gathered outside, before he allowed himself to break. He pulled over onto the shoulder, face wet. His body shook with the momentousness of his grief.

 

            Scott stood on Stiles’ front porch, hands deep in his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. Behind him the sun shone against a backdrop of blue sky. It was a terribly perfect day. Stiles squinted at the brightness; he’d failed to open his curtains for three days.

            “Hey.” Scott smiled, trying hard at casual. Stiles nodded, tongue too awkward to speak, a jut of his chin all he could muster. “You, uh…you okay? No one’s seen you for a few days.”

            “I haven’t been feeling too hot.” Stiles leaned against the doorframe, one hand on the doorknob. He’d only opened the door a third of the way. Scott stood framed, a narrow vision. “Are you—”

            “I’m fine. Deaton says I check out. Nothing to worry about. Thanks to you.” Scott ducked his head to catch Stiles’ eye, but he was quicker. Stiles had to say something, but what? The silence stretched out paper thin between them till it broke.

            “I’m glad. Listen, I should really be getting back to…” Stiles reached for a lie but none came. “I should get going.”

            “Can I come in? We need to talk.” Scott’s tone was gentle and imploring, but it hit Stiles with the force of a sledgehammer. He felt his chest cave in. _Here it comes_ , he thought, the conversation he’d spent nights dreading. Stiles stepped aside, allowing Scott space to enter. Muscle memory took him up the stairs to his bedroom, Scott following behind. With the door shut, his room felt suddenly small, cage-like. Trapped.

            Stiles sat on the edge of his bed. Scott hovered, hesitant to join him. Eventually he grabbed Stiles’ desk chair and dragged it across the room. He sat, face to face. There was only a scant few feet between them, but to Stiles it felt like miles. He rubbed his hands over his knees.

            “I wanted to say sorry.” Scott measured out each word, careful as a sculptor chipping away at marvel. Stiles heard the effort, the care. “The things I did…I know you know it wasn’t me. But still. I’m sorry.”

            Stiles nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His heart beat against his ribs. He was going to be sick, head spinning. The back of his neck tingled, waiting for the axe to drop.

            “Deaton told me about the antidote. How you were the only one who could get close enough.” Bile rose up Stiles’ throat. Scott’s voice grew quieter, till Stiles had to lean close to hear him. He balled his hand into fists. “I remember…it’s like a dream, really. I can see what I did, hear what I said…but it’s like it happened to someone else, you know? Like I’m stuck watching a bad horror movie.”

 _So he knows_. _He remembers_. Stiles reminded himself to breathe, but his throat tightened till only a narrow airway was left. He wheezed.

            “And then it’s like I woke up. Like someone adjusted the color on my TV. I was in the lake house and you…” Scott’s voice went wet and Stiles heart broke.

            “Scott, I’m…I’m so sorry. I didn’t—” He can’t say he didn’t want to, he can’t lie to Scott’s face. “—I didn’t know what else to do.”

            Scoot looked at him with eyes that shimmered with unspilled tears. “I should have told you. But I wanted…I wanted you so badly, and I didn’t think…I didn’t know what was real, and what was the chuiaels. So I…” Scott buried his face in his hands and when he removed them hi cheeks shone wet. “I shouldn’t have pretended. I should have told you it’d already worked. But I thought…what if that was my only chance? And I shouldn’t have. I…I took advantage of you.”

            Stiles couldn’t follow, didn’t understand what Scott was saying. The events of the lake house played through Stiles’ mind. The subtle change in Scott’s voice, his hidden face. The antidote had worked, even before Stiles…even when it wasn’t the whole vial.

            “It was you.” Stiles heard his own voice as if from far away. “It wasn’t the chuiaels. Not when I…”

            “I’m sorry.” Scott spoke around a sob, the back of his hand wiping at his face. “I should never have…I’m sorry.” Scott stood to go, tears flooding down his cheeks. “I just needed to tell you that. I know you’ve been avoiding me and I…I just needed you to know.” He turned to go but Stiles caught his wrist, standing too. His other hand cupped Scott’s jaw and brought his face up, made him look at him.

            “Scott I thought I…I thought that you…” Stiles couldn’t voice the fears that had plagued him. Scott’s rejection, his disgust, the accusation waiting in the wings. To know that Scott had wanted him, that Scott wanted what he’d wanted...Stiles swiped a thumb across Scott’s cheek. Scott looked at him and all the world fell into place.

            Stiles leaned in and kissed him. Not the rough, frantic kisses of before. But slow, gentle as daybreak, soft as spring. He kissed the corners of Scott’s mouth, his eyelids and cheeks. He kissed Scott back to himself, until Scott was kissing him in return. Hands wound themselves around Stiles’ neck, his own fingers lost in the tangle of Scott’s hair. They fell back onto the bed, but they never stopped kissing. Fingers touched, moving down their bodies, desperate and afraid that _this_ touch, _this_ moment everything would crumble away. But Scott moved his body closer, arching into him, his lips parted in breathy moans that billowed hot against Stiles’ face. Stiles raked Scott’s shirt up, fingers searching beneath, moving across the taunt valley of his stomach, thumbing over the pert pebbles of his nipples. Scott wound a hand around him, pressing into his lower back, pulling Stiles on top of him.

            Skin flush with skin, their shirts forgotten on the floor. Scott worked at the button of Stiles’ jeans. Soon they were both clad in nothing but their boxers. Scott slid his thighs apart so Stiles could slot in between them. Their dicks ground against each other. Stiles’ mouth hung open, Scott bit at his lower lip. A hand slipped inside Stiles’ boxers to pull his cock out and he buried his mouth in the side of Scott’s head, licking at the shell of his ear.

            “ _Fuck_ , Scotty.” He canted into Scott’s grip, fingers loose but firm. His own hands busied themselves tugging down the hem of Scott’s boxers, tugging at his cock, playing with his balls. The room filled with the heady scent of sweat, tinged with precum.

            “I want—” Scott mouthed against Stiles’ neck. “I want you to come for me.” He moved his head to catch Stiles’ eye. “I want to see it, to remember it. I want…I want you to do it for _me_. Really me.” Stiles’ breath caught in his throat, his heart skipped a beat. Scott’s expression was so soft he worried he’d break it if he moved. He cupped his cheek, brought his lips to Scott’s.

            “Anything. Anything for you.” And in that moment nothing was truer, no belief more universal.

            They rearranged, Stiles’ back flush with Scott’s chest. He positioned himself between Stiles’ thighs, his cock pressed tight between them. His fingers formed a vice grip. They moved together, Scott’s spit-slicked cock gliding smooth as silk between quivering muscles. Stiles screwed his eyes shut as the head of his cock popped out again and again from the tight grip of Scott’s hand. Nails bit into his hips, Scott held him in place as he snapped his pelvis rough against Stiles’ ass. Scott bit at his throat, tongue soothing the subsequent red marks. Stiles threw his head back over Scott’s shoulder, offered himself up, a sacrifice to decadent gods. His stomach went taunt, his toes curled as his balls pulled up against his body. He spilled out with a gurgled cry, shooting hot over Scott’s fingers. He trembled with the force of it, his body wracked and wrecked. Scott grunted gruff, swore hot against his ear. Something hot and wet dripped down his thighs.

            Stiles drew in breath in gaping mouthfuls, rapid _risefallrisefall_ of his chest. Scott rolled them over so he could lie on his back. Stiles settled on his chest. His heartbeat drummed in his head. Fingers ghosted over the track of his spine. His mouth filled with questions, hungry for answers, for explanations, for _what now_ , _what next_.

            But then Scott scooted a finger under his chin, tilted his head up, and Stiles was drunk on his whiskey eyes. They kissed, slow and long as moonfall, until there were no questions left that mattered, only the truth of Scott in his arms, of this moment, stretched out before them. And perhaps this wasn’t the best Monday of Stiles’ life, but it was pretty darn close.


End file.
